


dead of winter

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Touch Aversion, gen or slash? you decide!, please read the tags, the promdyn is past and background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: All Gladio’s done is bottle, and hurt, and make mistakes, all for the sake of Noct.But Noct’s gone.All that’s left is the brilliant, blind man on the bed, and the broken young man ahead of him.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum, Prompto Argentum/Ardyn Izunia
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	dead of winter

**Author's Note:**

> antis: don't write fic about abuse and unhealthy sex!!!!!!!!! you're a horrible, abusive person if you write about rape!!!!!!!  
> me:  
> me: anyway here's another fic about prompto's rape trauma

Gladio, of all people, is the one who catches it.

They're on the road again, sharing close quarters where they can find abandoned houses in Niflheim, but not ones so broken down that the cold seeps in. The most accurate word to describe where they're staying tonight would be a 'hovel,' with two boxy, tiny bedrooms, one living room and kitchen combo, and a single bathroom. Privacy really isn't an option right now, though they all desperately need it.

Gladio's squashed in the corner of an abandoned couch fiddling with his phone when Prompto takes first shift in the adjacent bathroom. The kid looks terrible, beat within an inch of his life. They fixed him up a bit at the Keep but certainly had no way of finding him a shower, not to mention running water of any kind. Hell, they barely had the supplies to clean the worst of his wounds. He absolutely deserves this.

There's a light banging as Prompto tries to get the door to latch properly - Gladio looks up from his phone because of the noise, but it resolves itself and soon enough the sound of the shower running replaces it. 

The water pressure sounds pitiful, but it's what they have. It's better than nothing.

Gladio's never been much of a planner, but the world has gone so far to shit that he's taken up the pastime. Iggy is in one of the bedrooms, the one with the bigger bed, taking a quick nap. When Prompto's finished in the bathroom, one of them'll go and wake him up so he can take second shift in the shower, followed by Gladio. Then they gotta find something to eat and decide how long they can stay here before the daemons and the weather rip this cottage apart like all the others.

He looks down at his phone, to his last conversation with Noct - about a month ago now, from before Altissia. It's a nothing of an interaction, just a quick _what do you want?_ on Noct's part, and a returning _fish stew, extra spicy_ on Gladio's. 

If only he'd known. If only he could have protected Ignis. If only he hadn't been blinded by his rage. Gilgamesh might have given him his blessing, but really, what the fuck kind of Shield is he?

Even Gladio can't control the spiral of his thoughts and he thinks of his dad, hard and tall and strong. He thinks of Iris, bearing the loss of her country and kinsmen so well. 

He doesn't deserve to be an Amicitia.

He turns off the screen of his phone and clasps it between his hands, tight. He bends his head low, elbows resting on his spread knees, and breathes, breathes, breathes.

Then the bathroom door audibly creaks open. 

Only, the water hasn't stopped running. A gust of humidity glides out of the rapidly growing crack in the door, and Gladio can see the moldy blue tiles that line the whole room, and Prompto's bruised wrist reaching for the bar of soap they scrounged up. He's facing away, not having noticed the door, and in Gladio's mind getting up to go shut it is no big deal. He's seen embarrassing bits of everyone on this trip, Prompto included. It doesn't even occur to him that there might be a problem until he grasps at the doorknob to pull it closed, and glances up.

All the hidden parts of Prompto's body are a deliberate mess.

Gladio knows about the stretch marks, and the hints of self-harm scars peeking around his thighs aren't a new sight either. It's the rest of it that makes him freeze: the raw scratches down Prompto's back; fresh knife cuts mixed in around his hips; and there are blotches of pink and purple and red that Gladio _knows_ are hickeys, trailing up and down his frame from his collarbone to his knees. 

He shuts the door way too violently, and stares into the middle distance for several beats before making another quick plan, and heading to the bedroom with the bigger bed.

*

"Iggy. Hey. Ignis. There's a situation."

Ignis snaps up from the bed, summoning a spelldagger. "What is it? Do we need to evacuate?"

"Not that kind of situation," Gladio grumbles, and Ignis frowns. "It's about Prompto," he clarifies.

"Ah." Ignis banishes the dagger again, chest still heaving a bit from panic. "I assume he's been hiding worse injuries than the ones on his arms?"

Even though Gladio just saw the kid's legs, _saw_ the proof of what happened, the exact realization of what it all means trickles into him like icy water. Worse - now that he's got Iggy's attention, he's going to have to _say it out loud._

"Gladio?" Ignis questions after he lapses into silence. 

He still can't find the words to express his horror, mouth gaping uselessly open like a fish.

"Gladio?" Ignis tries again, sharpness laced all through his accent. 

"Prompto was...I think he was raped," Gladio says, and just as quickly afterwards purses his lips shut.

Ignis sits there with his mouth open for maybe twenty whole seconds.

"Did he tell - " he starts, clearly disbelieving.

"The bathroom door swung open. Iggy, he's - he's wrecked."

Ignis puts a hand to his face, rubbing at it. He sucks in a breath.

"Apologies,” he says, and his voice has gone deeper than Gladio has ever heard it, “I'm merely thinking of the best way to flay that man alive."

“Ardyn?”

Ignis nods. His hand falls to his lap, on his knee, and grips at his pantleg.

They sit in silence for several moments, a thick sourness in the air between them. In the background, the shower water patters ineffectually against the tile.

“I mean,” Gladio shifts further onto the bed, pulling a leg up. “It’s not like we can let it go, right? What if he’s. His. Um.”

“Of all the things we do _not_ have, it is supplies for a rape kit,” Ignis says, exhaustion layered into the words.

Gladio’s head feels...swimmy. He can’t believe he has to think about this. Not six months ago they were vacationing in Galdin Quay, excited to catch the ferry – what _happened?_

War happened. Altissia happened. Fate and the Crystal took everything from them.

He remembers being forced to attend Council meetings in his late teens, same as Ignis and Noctis, the whole room filled with stuffy old men in ornamental clothes discussing troops and supplies and money. He remembers how his dad used to get distant sometimes, throw himself into work at the Citadel or time with King Regis instead of coming home.

He thinks about Prompto, pushed down on one of those filthy cots, or the floor, or strung up in that y-frame, felt up by the same hands that murdered Luna –

Despite being the least injured out of all of them, Gladio feels like he’s going to puke.

“You raise a fair point, however,” Ignis concedes. “It’s…understandable that he may be hiding this from us, but we need him healthy if we’re to get out of Niflheim alive. If there are injuries that need outstanding care…”

“His hips,” Gladio blurts, and Ignis’s brow furrows as if in pain. “They looked pretty bad. From what I could tell.”

“Have you noticed if he’s been walking strangely?” Ignis asks.

“Who’s been walking strangely?”

The heads of both Gladio and Ignis snap up towards the voice. Prompto himself is standing there, fully dressed with his tundra coat on and his hair dripping wet. He’s frowning in his usual, exaggerated way but Gladio sees it – how his red-rimmed eyes, the one on the left swollen in sunset colors, are open just a little too wide. They dart between both of their faces.

Gladio stands from the bed as if it’s burned him. When he looks back at Ignis, his face is tilted downward, brow still furrowed.

Prompto looks just about ready to dart out of the room, jittery and haunted.

_“So long as fear binds your heart, the power you possess is wasted on you.”_

Gilgamesh’s words ring through Gladio's head like his ghost is standing right beside him, a sound as clear as the day that no longer exists. He had ended that fight admitting just how afraid he was, but it’s not like he’s worked to build his mettle since. All he's done is bottle, and hurt, and make mistakes, all supposedly for the sake of Noct.

But Noct’s gone.

All that’s left is the brilliant, blind man on the bed, and the broken young man ahead of him.

Ignis clears his throat to say something, but Gladio beats him to it.

“Hey. Uh,” he starts, rocky as hell. “Is there any hot water left?” he asks.

Prompto laughs. It’s not funny.

“Like there was ever any to begin with, big guy.”

Gladio can’t help but snort. “Right. Iggy, you’re up.”

Ignis startles for a moment, surprised at the sudden shift in conversation – but then the gears in his head start turning, the lines in his face relaxing before he nods.

“Of course,” he says. He pats around before levering himself off the bed. Gladio helps him to the door, gives some basic directions to the bathroom, and shuts it behind him.

Prompto’s moved a little further into the room, yet as far away from the bed as he can. As if his fear couldn’t be more evident. But Gladio gets it, at least a little. He doesn’t press any closer into his personal space, and he doesn’t move for the bed either.

“You know about the door, right?” Gladio asks, getting straight to the point.

Prompto makes an _ugh_ noise, and squeezes his eyes shut. Then:

“C’mon, it’s not like we haven’t all seen each other’s dicks and asses before.” He tries to laugh it off. “I really thought I’d shut it, honest.”

“I’m worried about you,” Gladio counters, trying to shut the insincerity down. Prompto’s nervous cheeriness darkens considerably.

“Oh yeah?” he bites back. “Wanna yell at me about it? Shove me around like you did when you were ‘worried’ about Noct?”

Gladio winces, and the poison he’s been trying to keep locked away in his chest all these weeks and months threatens to overflow – but he can’t. Not when Prompto needs help. Not when he can still make this _right_.

Prompto’s cruel words kind of seem to sink in for him though, and he turns apologetic – worringly obsequious, actually – not a moment later.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was –”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gladio grunts. “You’re right. I’ve been a huge fucking asshole. I guess I just wanted to let you know that –”

Once again, the implications of what Prompto went through send a chill through his body, and nausea rears up in his gullet. Fuck. _Fuck_. No one deserves that pain.

“…I saw more than just your ass in there. And I just – well, Iggy and I both – just need you to know that whatever that fucker did to you, it…it isn’t your fault.”

Prompto goes completely, dead still. Seriously, Gladio’s never seen the guy this motionless.

“You don’t know that,” he says, like the part of him that used to yell jokes and hum pop music off-key has died and this is its funeral. “You don’t know anything.”

Rage sears the insides of Gladio’s body, but not for Prompto – for Ardyn.

“Nope,” he admits. “Notta damn clue.”

Prompto blinks at this admission, taking a shuddering breath and breaking out of his rigidity.

“What I do know,” Gladio continues, “is that those cuts on your hips are gonna get infected if we don’t take care of ‘em. I don’t want you walking around in pain as much as I want you at your best in battle.”

“I – uh –” Prompto brings his hands up and fidgets, and Gladio almost wants to tear up at the normalcy of it. “I don’t…want…” He curls his shoulders inward.

“What?”

Prompto looks at the floor, eyes darting side-to-side, like he’s considering the pros and cons of saying it.

“I don’t really know if I can handle being…touched…there…right now. If I’m being honest.”

“Is there someone who you’d be willing to let patch you up?” Gladio asks.

Prom lets out a hoarse half sob, half laugh. “Noct.”

Grief spears Gladio through the heart, worse than Ravus’s blade, worse than the scars from Gilgamesh.

“Kid,” he says, and moves forward to swallow him in a hug before stopping. “Uh,” he stammers. “Can I…”

Prompto’s definitely crying now, though he tries discreetly to wipe the tears away. “Yeah. I’m cool with that.”

His eyes are shut when Gladio scoops him up, and that’s fine with him. Gladio keeps his hands up high, around Prom’s shoulders and upper back. They press close, but he tries not to suffocate Prom completely – he tries so, so damn hard to imbue his actions with all the things he struggles to say.

_This is okay. You’re okay. You can pull away at any time. What happened will never be your fault, no matter what that bastard says or does._

Warmth swells between them. Prompto pushes a little closer – his arms eventually come up, wrapping around Gladio’s middle, drawing lightly up and down the span of his back.

 _You will always be safe with us,_ Gladio thinks, and resolves to make it true _._

**Author's Note:**

> this is rusty, might fix it up later
> 
> twitter: @darlathecyborg


End file.
